


A Sea and Four Centuries

by MDJensen



Category: Merlin (TV), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, basically an excuse to scramble Santi's characters, crossver with in-universe explanation, not actually crack I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: In which Lancelot and Aramis wake up in the wrong beds-- and the wrong countries, and the wrong centuries.





	1. Chapter 1

It was raining.

But something about the rain did not sound right. Too close; in the castle, the roof was so high above his head that the droplets all melded together into one buzzing sound. Now, he could hear each one, as though the roof were low, as though he were back in the kind of house where’d he’d been a boy—

He was dreaming. It had been a long, long time since he’d dreamt of his village, since he’d dreamt of his parents. He’d never forget. God willing, he would have their faces in his memory for the rest of his days. But it had been a long time since they’d come in his sleep—his mother’s voice, his father’s smile—he turned to look for them, to remain with them a moment longer— but where were they? Perhaps he wasn’t dreaming—

Lancelot opened his eyes.

And in the next instant had leapt to his feet.

Not a dream. Not the castle, either. This was a room he’d never seen before, a room he had no memory of entering, and he tried to focus, tried to analyze the possibilities, but he really shouldn’t have moved so fast—his stomach contracted, eyes and nose and mouth all beginning to water as acid rose hot in his throat—

Sick? Was he sick? Had he been taken ill while out of the city, looked after by kindly villagers?

Or had he—Lancelot swallowed, hating this possibility—had he finally followed Gwaine’s advice? Gone to a tavern, gotten himself drunk enough to bed a stranger, drunk enough to finally begin accepting that Gwen was not his, that she never would be—

Another wave of nausea had him very nearly retching, and Lancelot reached out, found the wall to brace against. “Hello?” he called, once he could speak. He doubted it would make matters worse, and perhaps it would make them a good deal better. “Hello? Is somebody there?”

Somebody was. Three somebodys, in fact, and Lancelot was awash in the uncomfortable feeling that they’d been there the whole time, watching him sleep, watching him wake to sickness and confusion.

Offhand, they did not look like kindly villagers. Nor people he’d bed, unless he’d _really_ taken to following Gwaine’s advice—

“I don’t understand,” Lancelot said. To himself he sounded calm, polite, but perhaps this was not the right course of action. All at once, the three men were before him.

One was immensely tall, taller even than Percival, with dark skin and a full beard; another, nearly as tall, had tawny skin and a younger, freshly shaven face. The shortest was light-skinned and staring coldly at him. All were dressed in leathers—strange, ornate ones— and had sword handles peeking out at their belts.

The tallest grunted. He opened his mouth to speak and what came out was a lilting jumble of sharp and soft sounds combining like wine and water. French, Lancelot realized with a sinking feeling. He himself spoke perhaps thirty words at best, and these mostly quotidian phrases like _hello_ and _how much_ and _yes, I’ll fight him_. He had no idea what this man was saying. It was clear he wasn’t pleased, though; neither were his friends, who replied with similar expressions of distrust.

They backed Lancelot tighter against the wall. They surrounded him now, looking murderous, and the shortest was demanding something of him with frightening flashes of rage in his bright blue eyes.

No. No, he might be lost and sick and, yes, somewhat scared, but he would not give into bullies like this without a fight.

To his left there was a little space between the wall and the beardless man. Steeling himself for what would follow, calling upon tingling nerves to do their duty, Lancelot threw himself into the gap, seizing the sword from the man’s waist as he did so.

He stumbled back, holding his new weapon aloft. It was light, thin— some strange French blade then— but it could run a man through quite nicely.

The shortest— their leader?— pulled something else out. It was a weapon, this much was clear, but it was no sword that Lancelot had ever seen; rather it was a blunt metal cylinder, with a grip that fit neatly in its owner’s hand, leaving him free to point it at will. It was too short to touch an opponent. And yet from the way the man wielded it, Lancelot understood it to be a great threat indeed.

He kept his sword steady. “Listen to me,” he called, speaking as clearly as he could. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know how I’ve come to be here, and I _don’t speak French_. I don’t want to hurt you but I _will_ defend myself if you attack me.”

The two taller men shared a look. The leader did not lower his weapon, but he did frown, seeming to understand where the others did not. “You— are English?” he prompted. His accent was heavy but Lancelot felt a jolt of relief at the sound of words he could understand.

“Yes. I am Sir Lancelot, knight in the service of the king.”

“I am Athos, of the king’s musketeers.”

“We’re not in England?”

“We are in Paris.”

“This is France?”

“What have you done with our friend?”

“What?”

“Our friend Aramis. What have you done with him?”

“I don’t know who that is,” Lancelot insisted, trying to hide the wave of dizziness that newly ran over him. “Truly, Athos, I woke in this room. My last memories are of falling asleep in my own bed in the castle.”

Athos frowned at him. Taking advantage of the pause in conversation, the other two men broke into a barrage of French; Lancelot did not need to know the language to know they were demanding a translation. Without looking away, Athos spoke to them briefly. When he was finished he scanned Lancelot head to toe, then lowered his weapon.

With a shaky breath, Lancelot lowered his as well.

“ _Monsieur_ Lancelot, we believe that you believe what you say. But we are— very perplexed. You are nearly identical in appearance to our friend Aramis, and it seems exceedingly strange that in the same day that he should disappear you should arrive, and wearing his face.”

“I’ve no explanation to give you,” Lancelot admitted. “Truly, I wish I had.”

Athos nodded. “These are Porthos and d’Artagnan, also of the musketeers,” he introduced, indicating the two other men in turn. “As you have surely realized, they do not speak English.”

“ _Salut_ ,” Lancelot murmured. They did not respond to his attempt at pleasantries. The dizziness was nearly overwhelming now, but he hardly trusted these men enough to ask help of them, especially if this cold distrust was to be their reaction to everything. Then again, if what they said were true, how would he feel?

“Are you well?” Athos prompted. It wasn’t until the man stepped forward that Lancelot realized he had swayed on his own feet.

“Fine,” Lancelot insisted— then all at once the ground was coming at him.

*

Oh— _oh_. Mother Mary, what had he _drunk_ last night?

Aramis opened his eyes by a crack, letting the smallest bit of light creep in between his lashes, but even that was too much. He shut them again, rubbed them idly. Tried to convince himself not to roll over and be sick all over the floor, if not because of how miserable it would be to clean then because of how mercilessly Porthos would tease him for it.

And where was Porthos, anyway? Aramis typically only drank to true excess in the man’s company, and more often than not, wherever they collapsed for the night, they did so together. Eyes still shut, he felt blearily in the bed beside him—

No, no Porthos. Was he already awake, then, or had they in fact gone home separately? Aramis let his eyes open—again, only slightly—and tried to work out whose bed he was in. It wasn’t his own; it was too small. The sheets were fine, so it wasn’t Athos’ bed either; he didn’t remember meeting anyone last night, going home with somebody who wasn’t one of his friends, but perhaps he had—

Well. Time to face up, face the hangover and whatever other repercussions he might encounter, and solve the mystery at least.

Aramis opened his eyes.

And shot upright.

No, this wasn’t right; he wasn’t in a bedroom at all but in a huge, high-ceilinged chamber, a sort of cross between a library and laboratory. Nowhere he recognized, and certainly nowhere he would have settled down for the night intentionally.

By instinct he felt for his pistol, his sword; he found nothing, and his heart began to beat faster. His stomach lurched.

And then there was a voice, a quiet voice, beside him. Aramis whipped his head around, seeing stars at the sudden movement, and found himself being watched by two unfamiliar men.

One was old, with long white hair and a weather-beaten countenance. The other had a pale, narrow face and huge blue eyes, and was, upon further inspection, more boy than man. D’Artagnan’s age, perhaps even younger.

It was the boy who had spoken, a wordless noise to gain attention, and now that Aramis was looking, he spoke again, with false brightness.

“Hello!”

Aramis said nothing.

“Sorry, I know this is—confusing.”

All else aside, neither of them seemed terribly threatening, and Aramis decided that maybe engaging, rather than menacing, would be the best way to sort this all out. He cleared his throat.

“What—what’s happened to me?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Where am I?”

The boy pursed his lips. “You’re—in. Our chambers?”

“That isn’t very helpful.”

“Right. Well, you’re—it really is very hard to explain.”

But something else occurred to Aramis then, overriding his other questions.

“You sound strange. I— sound strange.”

“We’re speaking English.”

“No, weren’t not.”

“We are.”

“I don’t speak English!”

“It’s—”

“Hard to explain?” Aramis guessed. “You know, I’m getting a little tired of hearing that!”

“We do understand that this is disorienting.” The old man spoke for the first time. “Please, what is your name?”

“Whatever you’ve done with me, my friends will be looking for me!”

“Well, they won’t find you, I’m afraid.”

The boy let out a small noise of indignation, and eyed his companion. “Well, that wasn’t threatening at all!”

The old man sighed, did not respond. He produced a cup and offered it to Aramis.

“Drink this.”

Aramis eyed him with open mistrust.

“It will help you calm down.”

Aramis locked his jaw and knocked the cup out of the old man’s hand. “I don’t want to calm down!” he howled. “I want you to tell me where I am and who you are!”

The two were silent.

Then at last the old man spoke. “I am Gaius, the king’s physician.”

“I’ve met the king’s physician. You aren’t him.”

“I am the physician of King Uther,” Gaius added, explaining nothing, “and this is my ward, Merlin.”

“ _Where am I_?”

“I’m afraid you’re in England.”

Aramis’ stomach turned again, worse this time; the nausea that had only been a threat before was now a very real heat, seeping up his throat. He swallowed, tried to breathe through it.

When Gaius laid a hand on his arm he could not find the strength to pull way.

“Sit down, lad, there you are.” Despite how he’d lashed out quite violently at this man not a minute ago, Gaius spoke to him gently. There was something of a physician about him, in truth. Something mild and warm, something almost fatherly, and some aching part of Aramis was pulled in towards this, despite the circumstances. He let the man settle him on a cot. “Good. Now, if I fetch you another tonic, will you waste this one as well?”

Aramis shook his head; he felt chastised, but not in a way that upset him.

“Good.”

When Gaius moved away, the boy— Merlin— came closer. He was definitely younger than d’Artagnan, Aramis decided, but with the similar look of one bearing an older man’s burden. His eyes were keen, and kind. “You don’t have to be afraid of us,” he urged.

“I’m not afraid.”

“I’ll— we’ll explain it. I promise. But you’re sick now. When Gaius is finished you should lie down and try to sleep a while.”

Aramis was used to assessing threats; he had to be. And now, staring into Merlin’s big blue eyes while Gaius bustled about in the corner, he decided that he was safe with them.

“I’m Aramis,” he told Merlin.

“Aramis,” Merlin repeated. “Hello.”

Gaius came over then, and pressed a cup of something warm and far too sweet smelling into his hands. “Drink,” he ordered. “You’ll feel better.”

The liquid tasted even sweeter than it smelled, almost vilely so, and for a moment Aramis was sure he was going to bring it back up. He managed not to. And within a minute of swallowing it down he began to feel its effects, soothing, settling; he fought back a yawn and Gaius chuckled.

“Lie back,” he said, and spread a blanket over Aramis as he obeyed. “It’s all very perplexing, I know. Just sleep, for now.”

So Aramis did.


	2. Chapter 2

When he woke it was dark, and he was in bed. Lancelot heaved a sigh, unaccountably disquieted by the strange dream and still feeling a little sick. He struggled upright— and stopped dead.

Athos’ blue eyes stared back at him. The bed was not his own; he had not been dreaming.

This was still France.

“Lie back,” Athos demanded. “You have been very ill. Your fever is only now breaking; you have been caught between waking and sleeping all night.”

Lancelot breathed in sharply, trying to understand this. Despite himself he was distracted by the foul dryness of his mouth and throat. “Please,” he whispered. “Water?”

Athos rose, poured out a cup from a pitcher by the bed, then slid a hand behind Lancelot’s head and helped him drink. “Take only a little,” he warned. “Last time that you woke you suffered severe nausea.”

That much he could believe, though he remembered none of it, and shuddered to think of himself so helplessly reliant on this French stranger. Lancelot blinked his understanding, took one more sip, then turned away. “I thought I’d been dreaming,” he croaked. “Thought it was all some sort of nightmare. I mean, how did I end up in _France_?”

Athos said nothing. He wet a cloth and began to dab it gently over Lancelot’s brow; Lancelot suspected that this was not the first time he’d done so. “Thank you,” he rasped. “You didn’t need to look after me.”

“It is generally in poor form to ignore a man who faints dead at your feet.”

“Those other men— Porthos and d’Artagnan— they still think I had something to do with your friend going missing?”

Athos’ hand paused for a moment. “Do not misunderstand. I think this as well. But you are ill. And you will be of no use at all if you die.”

A little chuckle escaped at that. “I thank you in any case. And, thank you for speaking English.”

Now Athos smiled a little too, though he seemed nowhere remotely close to laughter. “It is— coming back to me. I learned it as a child and have not had occasion to practice in many years.”

“Well, you speak perfectly.”

“I am glad. The way you speak— it is different from how I learned. Almost— old-fashioned?”

“Oh, thanks,” Lancelot scoffed, feeling a little of the tension within himself easing. “Why would _I_ be the old-fashioned one?”

Athos shrugged. “Drink a little more,” he offered, and held the cup again to Lancelot’s lips. Feeling a bit bolder this time, Lancelot took a few healthy swallows.

“When I’m well,” he began, when the cup was pulled away, “I’ll help you in any way I can. I swear it. But once we’ve found your friend I must find passage home as quickly as possible. King Uther—”

“King Uther?” Athos frowned. “Don’t you mean King Charles?”

“King Charles?”

“The king of England is Charles. Of the House of Stuart.”

Despite himself, Lancelot snorted. “Not when I left.”

“There— has never been another Uther.”

Lancelot and Athos stared at one another, that precious moment of kindling friendship burning itself away. At last Lancelot sighed. “We are both knights in the service of our kings. Our peoples are not at war anymore, Athos. If you continue to be so suspicious of me, I’ll turn it back to you. How do I know you didn’t kidnap me?”

“What is the name of my king?” Athos asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Name my king. Who sits on the throne of France?”

“Louis.”

“Which one?”

“Last I heard it was Louis the ninth. Isn’t it still?”

Athos was frowning deeply now. “Lancelot. What year is it?”

Lancelot’s heart thudded harshly in his chest. “Twelve-twenty-nine. It’s May. The eighth now, I suppose.”

“It,” Athos replied, “is the fourteenth of October, in the year of our Lord sixteen-thirty-one.”

“Oh,” Lancelot breathed; and then finally things pieced together in his mind. “Oh, _Merlin_.”

“What did you say?”

Lancelot shook his head, trying to dismiss the question. He doubted that Athos would have allowed this, under normal circumstances; thankfully, though, the door opened then, interrupting them.

“Porthos,” Athos greeted. It was one of the other men from before, the tallest one, with the beard. He stepped towards them, eyeing the cloth in Athos’ hand. As before, Lancelot could understand next to nothing when they spoke; now that he knew what to listen for, though, he heard the name _Aramis_ come up once or twice.

They fell silent. Porthos came even closer now, and stood just at Lancelot’s side. Athos spoke again, quieter than before.

Porthos replied, but did not take his eyes from Lancelot; a moment later he reached out and brushed a thumb against his forehead.

Lancelot shivered.

Porthos dropped his hand, said something else then, and Athos frowned.

“He wants you to take off your shirt,” he translated.

“What?”

“Lancelot,” Athos said, slowly. “We know our brother well. Well enough that a shave and a haircut should not prevent us from recognizing him. I do not think you are Aramis. But your scars will tell for sure.”

“You think I’ve gone mad,” Lancelot realized. “You think maybe I am your friend and I’ve lost my mind and come up with some— some—”

“I do not. Nor does Porthos. But you must forgive us for needing— as much proof as we can get.”

Lancelot drew a breath to argue once again; then instead, suddenly exhausted, he lifted his arms, pulled off his shirt, and closed his eyes.

Calloused fingers traced ungently over his back.

Lancelot catalogued the scars they’d find there, principal among them the thin, pale mark that swiped nearly the length of his spine. Porthos grunted. His fingers hovered for a moment over Lancelot’s shoulder blade, where perhaps this Aramis man had a scar— but Lancelot most certainly did not.

“ _Ce n’est pa Aramis_ ,” the musketeer declared at last. Lancelot didn’t need a translator to understand this much.

“I promise you,” Lancelot sighed. “I’m truly not. And I truly do not know where he is, either.”

*

“—positively uncanny.”

“I suppose we know that Lancelot has children, now.”

“Such a perfect resemblance, though? It would be many generations removed. They’re identical, Merlin!”

“I can see that! And it’s a good thing too because he’s going to have to—”

Aramis hauled himself upright, interrupting the conversation he’d been half-following for a minute or so now. Merlin and Gaius fell silent, came to his side.

“How do you feel?”

“Better,” Aramis replied—and he did, although he sounded _terrible_. He cleared his throat a few times, gratefully accepting the water Merlin brought him.

“You slept through the night,” Gaius offered. “Just what your body needed, I suppose, but you must be hungry now.”

He was starving in fact, the nausea thankfully gone, but Aramis shook his head.

“I’m ready for an explanation.”

Merlin and Gaius exchanged a look.

“Listen. I’ve been patient, I think. You said when I woke, when I felt better, you’d explain. I’m awake and I feel better, and I’d like to know what’s going on.”

Gaius sighed. He seemed to remove himself from the conversation now, merely hovering at Merlin’s back as the boy fetched a stool and brought it to Aramis’ beside. Aramis crossed his legs to sit more comfortably, readying himself.

There were a few false starts—hands twitching, mouth making wordless sounds—before finally Merlin began. “I suppose the easiest place to start is with a question. How much—do you know about magic?”

That, Aramis had not been expecting. “Magic?” he repeated, feeling his eyebrows raise.

“Magic. The Old Religion.”

“Nothing.”

Merlin glanced tiredly at Gaius, who shrugged.

“Right. Well. That’s, um. That will make this a bit harder.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re here by accident, Aramis. Through a mistake, one I made. I know that won’t come as much of a comfort, but I can say this, at least. There were no—bad intentions towards you. There still aren’t. This was an accident and I’ll fix it as soon as I can.”

“I don’t understand. You brought me here, but— _unintentionally_? And what does _magic_ have to do with anything?”

Merlin sighed, looking so miserable that Gaius seemed to finally pity him, and lay a hand on his shoulder.

“This is the Court of King Uther of England,” he said, quietly, as Merlin canted into his touch. “In the court there is a knight by the name of Sir Lancelot.”

“And?”

“Lancelot—well. He has been threatened. There’s more to be said there, but we’ll come to that later.”

“You and Lancelot could be twins,” Merlin chimed in, seeming to find his voice again. “Honestly, more than twins, you could be—you could be him. He could be you. It’s unbelievable, how much you look alike.”

“So—I’m to be a decoy? To keep your man safe?”

“That was never my intention,” Merlin replied. He looked newly forlorn at this, and Aramis actually felt himself empathizing a bit with the boy. It all sounded ridiculous. And yet he still couldn’t shake the gut-deep feeling that Merlin was someone who could be trusted, and he found himself—investing, if not quite believing.

“Before we go on, may I establish a few things?” Gaius sounded as calm as ever.

“All right.”

“Before you woke here, where were you? France?”

“Paris,” Aramis agreed. “How—how did you know I was French?”

“You were speaking in your sleep.”

“And now—I’m speaking English? Don’t tell me that’s—”

“Magic,” Merlin sighed, sounding more miserable than ever. “A much easier spell. One even I couldn’t mix up.”

“France,” Gaius said, redirecting them. “France, in what year, Aramis?”

In what _year_?

“Sixteen-thirty-one.”

Gaius breathed out slowly. Merlin looked as though he might be sick.

“In your year,” Gaius began. “In your—century. Is magic permitted? Is it legal?”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” Aramis snapped, beginning to lose patience.

“That’s—not true.” Merlin’s voice weakened. “But I suppose it does answer the question.”

“Stop.” Aramis held up both hands. “You promised me an _explanation_ , and all I’m hearing so far is—is half rambling and half fairytale! And I knew—I knew I’d heard that name! _Lancelot_! Sir Lancelot of the Round Table, it’s a—it’s a myth! This is _insane_!”

If only he’d paid a bit more attention to the old stories, maybe he’d have some hint at these men’s intentions towards him!

Merlin had pressed a hand to his brow; when he spoke it was not to Aramis, but Gaius. “If I don’t wake Arthur soon we’re going to have even bigger problems.”

“Bigger problems than this?” Gaius prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean.”

“Still here!” Aramis growled, lifting his hands for emphasis. “Still here. Still waiting for an explanation that doesn’t smell like ten tons of horse shit!”

And though, up to now, he’d assumed that diplomacy and charm were the better assets to use here, perhaps that was wrong. Gaius was old and Merlin was rail-thin. Even without his weapons Aramis was fairly sure he could overpower them both, and there was the door— what lay beyond it was another question, but once the two of them were out of the way he could probably find some sort of something in this room to take with him, to use as a weapon—

“I know,” Merlin began, sounding more tired than ever. “Aramis, I know we have no right to ask anything of you. But I—I have to go. I have duties. Please—please just stay here, for a few hours? I’ll be back as soon as I can and I’ll—I’ll prove this all to you. Please?” He caught Aramis’ eyes and held them unexpectedly well. “You owe me nothing, but if you leave now—if you leave this room without letting me explain completely—Aramis, I could be killed. If the wrong people found out, I could honestly be killed.”

“Bear with us a few hours more,” Gaius added, sweeping closer as Merlin hesitantly abandoned his stool. “I’ll fetch you some breakfast. Merlin will be back as quickly as he can.”

So. To trust or not to trust. To linger on diplomacy or to throw fists and get out the door as quickly as he could?

Well, more information never hurt. Especially in circumstances as odd as these—even if the information wasn’t truth, but was only someone’s version of it.

“Next time I see you,” Aramis said, lifting a finger to Merlin. “You will tell me _everything_.”

“Everything,” the boy vowed, and disappeared from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the "historical" King Arthur would have been alive in the 6th century, _Merlin_ was never set in a specific time and definitely seemed (to my admittedly weak knowledge of history) to be much later than the 500's. So for the purposes of this story I have (somewhat arbitrarily) set Lancelot's native year as 1229.


	3. Chapter 3

They’d left him alone for now, which Lancelot appreciated. All he’d really needed was a moment to sit and think, and now he finally had it.

It had to have been Merlin. This had magic written all over it, and as Lancelot thought more, bits and pieces of his last moments in Camelot were coming back to him. The fight masters—the protection spell! Somehow, something had gone pretty seriously wrong—assuming, of course, that all Athos had told him was true.

Movement through time: another man surely would have doubted it. But Lancelot had seen enough strange things in the past few years to accept it, or at least to accept it as a genuine possibility.

So what to do? He had to assume that Merlin was working on it, and would come for him as soon as he could—

But could he? Merlin was powerful, yes, beyond imagination, but—this? _1631_? That would be one hell of a rescue, even for Merlin’s abilities.

Lancelot sighed, lay back on the bed. He was in Athos’ bedroom, he’d come to understand. The door seemed to lead to the rest of Athos’ chambers, and Lancelot had little doubt that one, if not more, of the musketeers was posted just outside.

So he stayed put. In the end he really had no choice but to believe he’d be rescued, and so until then, the prudent thing seemed to be—

Well. Survival, to be sure. Which in this case would seem to mean keeping his head down, drawing as little attention as possible. To be fair, of course, Athos and his friends had every right to think him mad. The trick, then, was to be thought of as harmless as well, though he privately scoffed at the notion. He’d spent most of his life working to come across as sort of quietly imposing. It would be hard, now, to temper those instincts, and remember that the best thing to do was cause no trouble. Wait for Merlin to sort things out.

And so despite every muscle in his body urging him to flee, disappear into the still-flooding rain, Lancelot sat. Sat on the stranger’s bed, waiting. Waiting and _shivering_.

France, as far as he knew, was not colder than England as a rule— perhaps it was the rain, or just a factor of skipping straight from May to October. Or perhaps it was his heart getting the better of him. In any case, he was freezing, and wrapping the thin bedsheet around himself did little to help.

And it was somewhat embarrassing, too. _Certainly doing a good job at appearing non-threatening_ , Lancelot thought sourly, as Porthos opened the door to check on him, raised an eyebrow at his current state, and shut the door again.

Part of him was always focused on strategy, no matter what. This part noted that now at least he knew who was guarding him—though it was little help, in the end. Even if he wanted to escape, Porthos seemed the hardest of them to beat. Not only was he the biggest but he seemed the _angriest_ at Lancelot’s presence. More than suspicious, more than confused; honestly furious.

Again, of course, who could blame him? His friend was missing.

But then something happened that Lancelot could not have predicted; the door opened again, and in walked Porthos. And far from furious, he looked—calm? In his arms was a thick, lovely blanket, and with a spout of French, he held it out to Lancelot.

“Oh,” was all Lancelot could say for a moment, caught off-guard by this spontaneous act of kindness. Porthos waved at him to avail himself of it. He did, finding it as warm and soft as it had looked, and he sank back tiredly. “Um, _merci_.”

Porthos’ eyes lit up. Another unintelligible stream ran forth, but the last word was _français_ ; perhaps, then, Porthos was commenting on the fact that he spoke a little, or asking how much he did speak.

“ _Français_ ,” Lancelot repeated, holding up his thumb and forefinger, almost touching, to show how little French he spoke.

And Porthos, incredibly, smiled. “ _Anglais_ ,” he said, and did the same— only his thumb and forefinger were actually touching. Lancelot smiled back.

“Eh. Hm. Well, to introduce ourselves, we say, _my name is_. My name is Lancelot.”

Porthos blinked.

“My name is Lancelot,” Lancelot repeated.

“My name is Lancelot.”

He’d given no context, Lancelot realized, and laughed a little.

“No! Sorry. Eh. My name is Lancelot.” He pointed in towards himself this time. “Your name is Porthos.”

Porthos nodded, and said, very slowly, “My name is Porthos.” It all came out rather like _mah nam eez Porthos_ , but Lancelot was heartened in any case. “My name is Porthos,” Porthos said again. “Your name is Lancelot.”

“ _Français_?” Lancelot asked.

“ _Je m’appelle_ _Porthos_.”

“Shuh—”

Porthos shook his head. “ _Je. Je m’appelle_.”

“ _Je m’appelle Lancelot_.”

“ _Tu t’appelles Lancelot_.”

“ _Tu t’appelles Porthos_ ,” Lancelot said. “ _Je m’appelle Lancelot_. _Tu t’appelles Porthos_.”

“Phew,” Porthos remarked, miming the removal of sweat from his brow. Lancelot laughed, loudly and maybe just a little helplessly, and tugged the blanket tighter around himself. Porthos pointed at a spot on the bed and raised his eyebrows.

“Eh. _Oui_ ,” Lancelot agreed, and Porthos sat down, not quite next to him but close enough. They sat in silence a moment.

Then Porthos reached over and pinched a piece of the blanket. “ _Une couverture_ ,” he said, then repeated himself, very slowly.

“ _Une couverture_ ,” Lancelot echoed. “Blanket. A blanket.”

“Blan-ket. Blanket. _C’est une_ blanket.”

“This is a blanket.”

“This is a blanket. _C’est une coverture_.”

“ _C’est une coverture_.” Lancelot bowed his head, so that his breath warmed his fingers where they clutched the blanket together. “ _Je m’appelle Lancelot. C’est une coverture_. I’m going to forget this by tomorrow, you know.”

He glanced up at Porthos, who stared back, openly considering Lancelot’s face; as he did so, a sadness spread across his own features. When he spoke next it seemed nearly a plea.

“I don’t know,” Lancelot told him, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know.”

*

“You’re back early,” Gaius called, as the door opened and Merlin appeared, looking wan.

“Arthur asked after Lancelot,” he explained, coming over and pouncing instantly upon the bread that Gaius handed him. “When I told him—the fever was still high—he told me to come back and—offer my services here, for the day.”

“He really has come so far,” Gaius replied, thoughtfully. Then Merlin snorted, and he glared. “And don’t talk with your mouth full!”

“So I get an explanation now?” Aramis prompted. Merlin sighed, as though he’d been hoping Aramis would simply not speak up at all.

Aramis found he had no sympathy. And none developed, even as Merlin put his food back down and rubbed a hair over his hair. “I’ve been thinking this whole time, about how to say this best.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to let you know if any parts of it doesn’t make sense,” Aramis replied mildly.

Merlin sighed. “Gaius, maybe—”

The old man nodded, left them in privacy.

That Merlin had dismissed his only possible back-up, whatever form it took, had the undeniable effect of making Aramis trust him that much more.

Trust him as a person, that was. He still didn’t trust the half-story he’d heard; wasn’t sure he’d trust the whole one, either, but he’d rather hear it than not.

“Waiting’s not going to make it any easier, you know,” he advised. And Merlin nodded.

“You’re right. You are. All right.

“This is England. The year is twelve-twenty-nine. I am—a sorcerer. I have magic. My friend, Lancelot, was threatened, and two days ago I cast a spell that I hoped would protect him. It was meant—meant to cause any enemies who looked upon him to believe they were seeing someone else. But apparently—something went wrong, because instead of just making it seem like he was someone else—the spell went and switched him _with_ someone else. Someone, I suppose, who in all of time, looked the most like him, without actually being him. That would be you. So, here we are.”

“You’re insane.”

“I understand why you’d think that,” Merlin sighed.

And then something happened that Aramis could not have seen coming.

There was a small fire, burning across the room, lighting a cauldron of some sort; Merlin went to it and removed the cauldron, exposing the flames. He beckoned Aramis to him.

Aramis went, and stood before him.

“Sorry,” Merlin said, quietly. “This is probably going to be—surprising? I guess?”

And right there, right before Aramis, Merlin’s eyes flashed a sunny gold. Changed color, just for a moment—but the moment was too long for it to have been a trick of the light.

Then the smoke from the fire began to dance in the space between them. It rose, dipped, swirled, nearly alive. Merlin shifted his fingers and it twisted up, coalesced into the shape of a mighty tree, which grew to reach the ceiling and then spilled translucent grey leaves that turned to flakes of ash as Merlin lowered his hands.

Neck aching as he bent his head back, Aramis stared. Embers filling his vision, smoke filling his nose and mouth.

And the beauty of it swelled in him— as did the sorrow. Too many things became real all at once: Merlin, and magic, and 1229. He sank slowly to the ground.

Merlin settled beside him a moment later, proffering a crumpled handkerchief. “You’ve, eh, got some soot on your face,” the boy— the _sorcerer_ — stammered, when Aramis took it. With clumsy hands he wiped at his face, barely feeling it, fingers and cheeks likewise numb.

“That was,” Aramis croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “That was magic?”

“Mm. Mm-hm.”

“Magic. You can do magic.”

Without quite meaning to, he’d put the handkerchief aside and tugged the rosary from under his shirt; Merlin eyed it now, looking impossibly weary.

“You’re Christian,” he said, at last.

“Yes.”

“Of course you are. No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that badly—I mean, pretty much everyone is now, aren’t they? I’m even meant to say I am, if someone asks, but—let’s be honest. There’s not much room for me in a church.”

“We are—all God’s children, Merlin.”

“Oh, yeah? So just now, nothing—nothing came to mind? Chopping my head off? Burning me at the stake?”

Aramis opened his mouth, a little disappointed in himself when nothing came out. Part of him wanted nothing more than to put an arm around Merlin’s shoulders and assure him that God spoke to his people in many tongues, came to them in many ways—

Of course, yes, part of him wanted to run as well. Find the closest church, take refuge there.

Instead he sat quietly.

“Is that how people around here would handle this?” he asked, finally.

Merlin sighed. “More or less, yeah.”

“But you aren’t—Merlin, you hardly seem—wicked?”

His laugh held no humor at all. “Thanks. I certainly don’t see myself that way. Bit of a dunce, sometimes, but—no bad intentions.”

Aramis put a hand to his head. “You’ll—have to forgive me. This is all a lot to think through.”

This time when Merlin laughed it was a little brighter. “Honestly, the fact that you haven’t taken a swing or anything yet, you’re taking it pretty well. Better than most would.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aramis— listen. Magic is not allowed in Camelot. If I’m found out I’ll be put to death, no questions asked.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Exactly for that reason,” Merlin replied, a bit more forcefully. “I promise you, I will fix this. I will fix it. But until I do—” he sighed.

“Lancelot is a knight. One of the best. If he doesn’t return to his duties soon, people will start asking questions. And I don’t—I know don’t, that the questions would lead back to me, but they might.” He turned, met Aramis’ eyes for the first time in a while. “I’ll get you home, Aramis. But until then I need you to help me. I need you to take his place.”


	4. Chapter 4

Though he’d done nothing much at all the previous day, Lancelot fell asleep early and slept as the dead through the night. And he woke, thankfully, to a feeling of full health—

But also, less helpfully, to a feeling of abject loneliness. He still trusted Merlin. Still knew that his friend would do everything in his power to bring him back safely—but every moment that this didn’t happen watered the seed of doubt growing in Lancelot’s mind.

Merlin would do all he could. But would it be enough?

Or would he be trapped here? For good? Lancelot shivered, sitting up and bringing his knees to his chest as he let himself truly consider the possibility for the first time.

That he’d never see Merlin again. Or Percival, or—

Or Gwen.

Gwaine. Leon. Elyan. Arthur. Gaius.

The tavern. His chambers. His _horse_ —

For better or worse, Athos interrupted before Lancelot’s thoughts could spiral any further downwards. He shook himself, straightened. Merlin was going to bring him back, and all he had to do until then was keep himself alive.

A positive attitude could only help him there.

“Good morning,” he greeted, and Athos echoed him.

“Hungry?” he added.

“More or less starving,” Lancelot admitted. Not only did this seem a friendlier answer than _yes_ , but it was also the truth. He’d felt better yesterday than the day before, but he still hadn’t been able to eat much.

“I’ll bring you something in a moment,” Athos replied. “First I must ask: have you remembered anything? Anything that might be of assistance?”

“No.” The weakness of Lancelot’s smile was half for show and half real despair. “I really don’t remember anything beyond what I told you.”

“Had you— possibly been ill, before arriving here?”

“No.”

“And you can’t remember anything different in your life, just before this?”

In only two days, Athos’ mannerisms towards him had genuinely softened; apparently he was playing his role well. Well enough, perhaps, to push a little.

“The leading theory is still that I’m insane,” Lancelot mused. “Isn’t it?”

Athos said nothing.

“I suppose I can’t blame you,” Lancelot sighed.

“You are teaching Porthos English?” Athos prompted, waving away the old conversation.

“Oh. Yes, he told you?”

“He introduced himself to me ten times at breakfast,” Athos replied, with a faint, fond smile. “ _My name is Porthos. My name is Porthos._ He is somewhat excitable at times. He also asked me to explain to you the difference between _un_ and _une_. It is a distinction that many languages have, but English does not have it.”

Lancelot frowned a moment, but then remembered. Yesterday Porthos had taught him perhaps a dozen words before leaving: chair was _une chaise_ , door was _une porte_ , but, for some reason, bed was _un lit_. Porthos had not been able to explain why it was not _une lit_. Instead he had shrugged and muttered something that must have meant that Athos would explain.

“In French, a noun can take two forms,” Athos began. “Like people, it can be masculine, or it can be feminine.” For a solider, he took on the countenance of a scholar very easily, and under other circumstances Lancelot might even had been interested in what he had to say. Instead he found his head sinking, mind wandering almost instantly.

To be fair, he wasn’t sure if his brain was resisting the lesson on foreign grammar at seven in the morning, or if his heart was resisting the reasoning behind the lesson: that he really should think about learning French. Possibly as a matter of some urgency.

Well. It seemed the doubt—the fear—had found its way back to him already.

Lancelot didn’t realize he’d put his head in his hands until Athos abruptly went silent. “Porthos is a better teacher, I am sure,” he said, after a moment.

Lancelot shook his head. He didn’t care about the lesson, or the time of day, or which random Frenchman was standing before him; all he wanted was to go back to Camelot. To go _home_. For nearly two decades of his life he hadn’t really had one; to find one just to lose it so soon, to lose it like this—

His eyes were stinging. This startled him back to reality, and he forced himself to get a hold. He hadn’t wept in years. Not since the morning that he’d left Gwen, in the forest, without a goodbye— and the time before that he could not even bring to mind. He was not about to weep here, now, in front of this prickly French soldier.

“I will bring breakfast,” Athos murmured. Latching onto this, Lancelot nodded furiously. Athos left the room then, giving him a chance to shut his eyes and take a few deep breaths. It helped, and he settled again. By the time he heard footsteps returning, he was nearly calm.

He felt calmer still when the door opened. It was not Athos who had entered with a plate of food in his hands; it was Porthos. Lancelot could only smile shakily up at him. Despite their first few interactions, Porthos’ presence had somehow become a welcome one, and Lancelot sank into it gratefully.

Porthos smiled back, and said something that sounded friendly and cheerful. He crossed the room, handed Lancelot the plate, then settled beside him on the bed.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he said, clearly.

“ _Bonjour_. I know that one.”

Porthos nodded. “ _Ça va_?”

“Am I hungry?” Lancelot guessed, pointing at the food. Porthos looked where he was gesturing, and shook his head.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” he said again; then, as though the question should naturally follow a greeting: “ _ça va_?”

“Oh. Oh, how am I?” He put the food aside, for now.

“ _Ça va bien_ ,” Porthos said, grinning widely. Then he scrunched his face up into an exaggerated expression of misery. “ _Ça va mal_.”

Lancelot huffed out a laugh. He was definitely closer to the second than the first, but to say so seemed ungrateful and a little clumsy. What was French for restless and homesick and still the slightest bit nauseous?

“ _Ça va_?” Porthos prompted.

“Eh, _ça va_ _bien_ and _mal_.”

“ _Bien et mal_?”

“ _Oui_.”

“ _Ça va comme ci comme ça_ ,” Porthos said. He made an uncertain little gesture with his hand, then repeated himself.

“ _Ça va comme ci comme ça_ ,” Lancelot echoed. He wasn’t sure what exact form of indifference this expressed, but he liked the sound of it. “Um. _Ça va_?”

Porthos smiled, a little weakly. “ _Comme ci comme ça_ ,” he replied. Then his smile brightened. “ _Même_ ,” he said, gesturing between them.

Lancelot could only shrug.

“ _Même_ ,” Porthos repeated. He pointed to himself, said, “ _comme ci comme ça_ ”, then pointed to Lancelot and did the same thing. Then he held both hands out and showed how they perfectly aligned. “ _Même_.”

 _Same_ or _together_ , Lancelot guessed, but was not sure which. He scanned Porthos for ideas of how to ask and realized that they were both wearing white shirts, but their trousers were different colors.

“ _Même_?” he asked, indicating both of their shirts. “Not _même_?” he went on, indicating their trousers. Porthos nodded, smiling again.

“Same,” Lancelot said, clearly. “ _Même._ Same.”

“Same,” Porthos repeated, head titled. “Same.”

“Not _même_?”

“ _Différent_ ,” Porthos told him, and Lancelot huffed a sigh of relief. They’d understood each other after all. “ _Anglais_?”

“Different,” Lancelot replied, and watched as the same wave of emotion washed over Porthos.

“ _Différent et_ different. _Ce sont les mêmes_!” he crowed, and Lancelot felt the warmth of genuine fondness in his belly. Porthos caught his eye, smiled hugely. Then, seeming satisfied, he pointed back at the food he’d brought, and stood to pace the room as Lancelot retrieved the plate.

Lancelot got a few bites of food down. But queasiness overpowered hunger before too long. Feeling oddly guilty, he set the plate on the floor; at the quiet clunk, Porthos turned back towards him.

“Sorry,” Lancelot sighed. Composure drained away like wine from an uncorked barrel, and he let his head fall into his hands. “Sorry,” he said again. Then, realizing that Porthos couldn’t understand a word he was saying, he heaved a deep breath and blurted out, “I thought I was hungry but to tell you the truth I feel a bit sick and if this is a bad dream then I’m ready to wake up, thanks.”

Porthos made no response. Lancelot hadn’t been expecting one, of course, but still the silence was a little disappointing.

Then something happened that he had not expected.

Something— someone— very warm and very solid sank onto the bed just beside him, and wrapped a sturdy arm around his shoulders. Lancelot felt himself stiffen. His friends— maybe Gwaine aside— were not huggers themselves. But he needed this terribly, a moment of comfort in the midst of all the gloom, and after a few seconds he found his head wilting onto Porthos’ shoulder.

“I wanna go home,” he whispered. It was new, this permission to say whatever he pleased, and despite all else it felt a little freeing. Porthos’ big hand scrubbed over his arm. Lancelot drew in a massive breath, held it a moment, then let it out as slowly as he could.

Then Porthos clapped his arm and let go. The time for comfort had passed, Lancelot understood, and he sat up, grateful to have had it at all. Porthos had retrieved the plate of food from the floor. Rather than taking it away, though, he held it in his lap between them and pointed to a slice of ham. “ _Ceci est le jambon_ ,” he said, speaking clearly. “ _Jambon. Oui_?”“ _Jambon_ ,” Lancelot repeated. “Ham. We call it ham.”

“Ham,” Porthos echoed— then grinned. “Ham. _Jambon_. Eh? Same. _Je parle un peu l’anglais_!”

Lancelot felt a tired smile creeping onto his lips. _Parle_ he knew, and the rest he could sort well enough. “I speak a little English,” he said, twice, pronouncing carefully each time.

“I speakuh littl’english,” Porthos repeated, muzzling a few of the words together. Then he tried it a second time, and did much better. “I speak a little English.” He pointed at Lancelot. “ _Je parle un peu français_.”

“ _Je parle un peu français_ ,” Lancelot repeated, and Porthos grinned.

*

Morning came. Aramis watched the pink light swell to fill Gaius’ chambers as the sun rose out the windows. He himself had been awake for hours already, though he’d stayed in bed, mostly praying.

He was, by turns, excited and terrified at the thought of the day. Were he to believe Merlin’s story—and he found himself believing it more and more with every passing moment—then his role in things was vital. And while it would be nice to have something to do, this was certainly not his forte. He’d be living another man’s life, essentially, playing a part like an actor on a stage. An actor responsible for crafting his own lines, at that.

Merlin had helped, of course; he and Gaius had sat with Aramis for hours the night before, naming people and describing their faces and habits, explaining routines, preparing him as best they could.

Oh, and they’d _shaved_ him, too! Shaved him, and shorn his hair so close he could barely run his fingers through it!

 _Pity this didn’t happen a few years ago_ , Gaius had remarked; _Lancelot wore his hair quite long back then._

Right; a lot of help that was now!

Freshly annoyed by the assault, Aramis reached up and scrubbed at the hair. At least he wasn’t expected to perform full duties yet. Gaius had informed necessary people that he—that Lancelot—was still weak from days of fever, and would leave the infirmary today but would not resume normal tasks until tomorrow or the day after. A rehearsal, of sorts. Before the real show began, and he had a feeling he’d need it.

By and by Merlin and Gaius rose. They shuffled around, readying themselves for the day; before long all were washed and dressed, and breakfast had been eaten.

“Ready, Aramis?” Merlin prompted. Aramis gave a short nod, then let the two lead him down the stairs, into the depths of the castle.

The thing was, he reminded himself: they had no real cause to doubt him. According to Merlin, Aramis’ own face and stature were essentially identical to Lancelot’s; his hair now matched, and they’d given him some of the man’s clothes to wear. He was even, apparently, speaking English. Even if he did not perfectly replicate Lancelot’s personality or mannerisms, the other knights had no actual reason to suspect anything.

No reason to think that perhaps he’d been replaced by a lookalike Frenchman from 400 years in the future because of a magic spell gone awry.

Aramis laughed a little, and felt himself calm. Absurd as this was, he’d faced greater challenges than this and lived to tell of them; he’d face this too.

He focused on the castle now, partly to distract himself but partly out of interest. He’d spent plenty of time in the haunts of kings, but this was something else entirely. Louis’ palace was bright and modern, its stone pale and smooth. But Uther’s castle was craggy and grey and _unutterably_ gorgeous, and Aramis entertained the thought that he could feel its weight upon him, the specters not only of its past but of the ruins it would someday become.

He shivered.

Then they reached the hall where the knights were breaking fast, and all the life and noise compared to the stillness of the passageways was enough to make Aramis dizzy.

Sat around stones tables were dozens of men. Merlin and Gaius led the way to one table in particular, where four sat in easy conversation.

“Ta da,” Merlin teased, getting their attention; they turned.

“Hey, hey!” one of them shouted; he got to his feet and slung an arm heavily around Aramis’ shoulders. Aramis returned the hug instinctively, and listened with gratitude as Gaius admonished Gwaine—he was very careful to call the man by name—for almost knocking his patient over.

“Morning, Gwaine,” Aramis laughed, once he’d been released. He took as long a look at the man’s face as he thought proper, matching it in his mind with the correct name. Then he turned to the rest of the group. “Good morning, everyone.”

“You had us worried, mate,” one of them put in. “Gaius wouldn’t even let us visit.”

“Well as you can see I’m returning him to you in increasingly good health, Elyan,” Gaius replied. “So perhaps you could find it in yourself to trust my best judgments from now on?”

Elyan laughed, and returned to his breakfast.

Aramis settled in an empty seat, observing the rest of them. Merlin and Gaius had primed him on everyone they referred to as the _Knights of the Round Table_ ; he knew Gwaine and Elyan now, and was able to identify Leon based on Merlin’s description of his curls. That left the muscular, short-haired man as Percival (he’d been told to watch for the tallest, but he and Leon were both quite tall, not to mention seated). And that was the knights sorted.

Or these knights, at any rate, because Merlin hadn’t been able to say much about the rest of them; Aramis could only hope that Lancelot didn’t associate with the others very much. Then again, these four did seem a somewhat insular group.

He didn’t have much time to ponder this before Percival leaned in closer.

“Lancelot, how are you feeling? Really?” And unlike the others, who had seemed to be playing with him a bit, Percival seemed genuinely worried. Aramis made of note of this, and smiled.

“Bit light-headed still. But on the mend. I promise, Percival.”

Apparently this was the right thing to say, for the man nodded in acceptance and fell back into conversation with the others.

Aramis felt Merlin linger behind him a moment longer. Before him, at the table, Leon passed a platter of meats to Gwaine, who reached for it so eagerly that he nearly toppled Percival’s drink. Elyan laughed.

Merlin patted Aramis’ shoulder. Then he and Gaius departed, leaving Aramis quite on his own.


	5. Chapter 5

“We have some questions.”

It had been a week now, since Lancelot had woken to find himself in France. Possibly more than a week. The days ran together like mud and water; he had yet to leave the room, and his clumsy conversations with Porthos were the only time he felt even vaguely human. Hell, they were nearly the only time anyone even spoke to him.

Apart from moments like this, of course.

But Lancelot just nodded patiently, and readied himself for whatever new questions Athos had come up with. Every day it was the same, really. The inquiries were generally polite, and varied a bit from day to day, perhaps to catch him off guard or perhaps just for the illusion of progress. In the end, it all led in the same direction.

Athos was convinced that, before he’d been found by d’Artagnan last week, unconscious in the street, Lancelot had been in an institution. A madhouse, Athos was careful never to call it. But Lancelot could read between the lines of his questioning and knew that he had more or less solidified this theory into a conclusion, however delicately he worded things.

The real question, then, was how he’d come to be their problem.

Well no, the real question was how—why?—he looked more or less identical to their friend, to Aramis, but even Athos seemed to accept that Lancelot could probably not account for this.

He wondered how Athos accounted for that part himself.

By now they’d mostly stopped addressing the appearance issue, focusing instead of anything Lancelot could remember before his arrival in Paris. He more or less told the truth. It was easier, that way, to appear consistent; and he doubted that he could do any more damage to their perceptions of his sanity anyway.

For the third time, now, he was recounting the night before. Trying hard not to get swept up by emotion as he related how he’d eaten supper with the other knights, but rejected the idea of the tavern. How he and Percival had instead taken some wine up to the ramparts. How they’d sat for a while, drinking and stargazing; talking about nothing in particular but feeling unburdened in each other’s company nevertheless.

All of this was true. What he did not include was what he’d done between duties and supper, and what he was fairly sure had to be the explanation behind this all: the protection spell. What could Athos possibly do with that information, anyway?

When his response to the question ended, Athos did not ask another; Lancelot used the opportunity to address his own growing curiosity.

“Can I ask you something?”

Athos tilted his head back, ever so slightly. Lancelot took this as permission.

“I know you think I’m— not well. I’ve had moments this past week that I’ve thought that myself.”

Silence still, but of an acquiescing sort.

“What is your best theory, now? Your whole theory? I think I’ve established that I’m not a threat. If you tell me all of what you’re thinking, maybe I could help more. Tell you anything that blatantly couldn’t be true or, or even, perhaps, it would stir something in my memory. Please?”

Athos sighed. But in the end it was seconds only before he relented.

“Lancelot,” he began. “Clearly, you aren’t well. In the first few day I hoped it was alcohol, or even opium, that had brought you to such a state. But that would not seem to be the case.”

“No. And yes, I know. There’s no version of the story in which I’m sane. I’m not offended.”

Athos actually smiled a bit at that. “Of course the real curiosity stems from your appearance. Clearly, you are not Aramis. Your scars tell us that for certain, even if insanity could account for the memory loss and the language difference.”

“I agree. I’m truly not him.”

“Your face was hardly your own to choose. But it can’t be coincidence, either. The logical conclusion, then, is that your likeness to Aramis is chance, but the utility of that likeness—has been used to someone’s advantage.”

“To whose?”

“Not yours,” Athos replied, quietly. “Nor mine. Nor Aramis’, I fear.”

“Then who—?”

“I will elaborate only as much as I will, so don’t ask me further.” All humor gone now, Athos had become entirely tense.

“All right.”

“Aramis has powerful enemies. I can only assume that one happened to find you by chance and—decided to take advantage.”

“And plant me here?”

“So that they could take Aramis. So that we wouldn’t go looking.”

“And what, just hope you’d assume I’d gone insane?”

Beyond tense now, Athos’ face was hard as stone. “I rather think they must have intended to kill you. That d’Artagnan finding you interrupted them.”

“You think they meant to leave my body for you to find. So they could take your friend without consequence?”

“It is currently my most reasonable idea.”

“But that would mean—”

“That they have Aramis. Yes.” Anybody but a fellow solider would have missed the flash of fear in Athos’ eyes then. “But I must assume they mean to keep him a while. For leverage, or interrogation, or— torture. If they meant to kill him immediately, your involvement would hardly be required.”

Lancelot resisted the urge to let his head sink into his hands. With what information he had, Athos had pieced together quite a workable theory; Lancelot almost found himself going along with it, worrying for this Aramis, at the mercy of his captors.

And really, Lancelot didn’t know that he wasn’t in danger. He could only assume that Aramis had taken his place back in Camelot, that he had Merlin and Gaius to look after him for now. But he couldn’t be sure.

“Do you remember,” Athos asked, slowly, “ _anything_? Anything at all about being taken? Or even being hired? Speaking to _anyone_ you didn’t recognize in the days before—anything that might lead us to Aramis?”

“No,” Lancelot replied. “I don’t, Athos. I’m so sorry.”

Athos sighed and sank back, arms crossed. For a while they sat in silence, until Lancelot could bear it no longer.

“What are you thinking now?” he asked.

“Lancelot,” Athos replied. Not as though it were his name; as though it were the answer to his question.

“Yes?”

“Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table?”

Lancelot frowned, quite sure he’d never mentioned this by name.

“You see, I can’t help but wonder if you chose your own alias, or if the men who planted you here gave it to you.”

“Lancelot’s my name.”

Athos gave him an almost pitying look.

“Old stories, of course. Nearly myths. King Arthur and his knights. In Camelot, I think it was.”

And in an instant, Lancelot’s whole body became ice; he shuddered, thought he felt his very heartbeat falter.

He and his friends were history, from Athos’ perspective.

He’d never stopped to think that history might have _remembered_ them.

“The thing is,” Athos continued, eyeing him critically. “I can’t help but wonder if your name was chosen as—a message.”

“What kind of message?”

“A warning.” Athos looked away. “Sir Lancelot— was the knight who loved Arthur’s queen.”

*

 _Lord_ , but he missed his musket. The loading, the aiming, the _smell_ of the gunpowder! Not only did these men not fight with guns, but they didn’t even fight with proper swords!

Swords were not Aramis’ weapon of choice to begin with. And now he was expected to work with blades twice the weight he was used to, maybe even more—so heavy they were wielded with both hands.

It was some small miracle that his arms hadn’t fallen off yet. If made to fight with these awful _broadswords_ , Aramis honestly thought that Porthos might best Athos.

Now, _that_ would be something he’d like to see!

The Porthos-beating-Athos-at-swords thing, but also, of course, his brothers themselves.

At this point he’d more or less do anything for the chance.

But this wasn’t to say that he wasn’t having—well—perhaps inappropriately, a bit of fun here too? Soldiers were soldiers, no matter the century or their mother tongue. He and the other men sparred; they patrolled; in the evenings they gathered in the tavern and drank, and told jokes at each other’s expense. Quite like home, but with actual chainmail. And worse wine, yes, but _much_ better beer!

At night, every night, he found himself curling up and praying, missing his brothers, aching for home. But if he could avoid being so miserable during the day, well. Shouldn’t he do so?

“I can’t decide if I should be worried, or annoyed.” Leon’s voice broke through his wandering thoughts. “Or possibly laughing my ass off.”

“Mm?”

“Sick for three days at most, and a week later you’re still fighting like shit,” Leon replied, tapping Aramis’ sword lightly with his own. “Really, Lancelot, should I send you back to Gaius?”

“No, no.” Aramis straightened his back, cleared his throat. “Gaius said some, eh, lingering effects were possible. Mostly in the balance.”

“Right, well. Maybe a bit less time in the tavern would help, too.”

Aramis pulled a face that he hoped was neutral but still vaguely contrite. With the exception of Percival, who was less friendly by the day, everybody seemed fairly pleased to have him around. But Leon clarified:

“Used to be we had to beg you to stay for more than a round or two—this past week I think you and Gwaine have closed the place down every night!”

What, did Lancelot not frequent the tavern as much as the other? Well, that was something Merlin should have warned him about! He’d seen the opportunity to spend a bit more time having fun, a bit less time being miserable, and he’d taken it. Who wouldn’t?

“I’ll do better, Leon,” Aramis vowed, inclining his head respectfully. “You’re right that I haven’t—I haven’t fully been myself in recent days.”

“A small understatement. Is everything all right?”

“Fine. Really.”

Leon’s face smoothed out, losing his captain’s sternness to a look of friendly sympathy. “You’re a knight now, you know. Plenty of women would jump at the chance.”

Oh. _Oh_.

So Lancelot was in love; well, that made things easier. For this conversation, at least.

“I know you’re right, Leon,” he sighed, stowing his sword in its scabbard. He let his eyes wander to the grass below his boots. “My mind knows you’re right, even. But my heart—”

“Has a mind of its own?”

“Something like that.”

Leon shook his head, and thumped Aramis’ arm. “You should hear yourself. Go; get cleaned up, drink your sorrows, if you must. But reign it in a little, please. If I didn’t know any better, I’d’ve thought you never held a sword before today.”

Well that wasn’t fair; he’d been at it almost a week!

But Leon just laughed, lightly, and propelled him up towards the castle.

As was his habit, Aramis did not return straight away to Lancelot’s chambers, but instead climbed the many stairs to the infirmary. Merlin wasn’t typically home so early. But he’d happily visit with Gaius, too; with anybody, really, who knew who he actually was.

As it happened, though, Merlin was home early tonight. He sat at the table, nose-deep in a large, dusty book, and waved absently as Aramis let himself in and took a seat across from him.

“Merlin.”

“Aramis.”

“You never told me I’d been overdoing it with the tavern.”

“Mm? Oh. Yes, Lancelot usually leaves before the rest. Gets to bed sort of early. Have you been staying late?”

“I have.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Did somebody say something?”

“Leon. But I happened upon quite the believable excuse. By the way, you never told me, either—that Lancelot is in love?”

That got Merlin’s attention, where the rest had not. He lowered the ancient tome to the table and met Aramis’ eyes with hesitation.

“It’s a little complicated.”

“Don’t you think I should have all the information? If I’m to play the role believably?”

“Well, the thing is—Lancelot really doesn’t act on it. On how he feels. Frankly I was worried you’d oversell it a bit. Thought you might act more believably if you actually didn’t know.”

“Well, if he’s so demure about it, why does Leon refer to it like its common knowledge?”

Merlin considered that a moment, before he seemed to accept it, with a nod.

“So. Lancelot’s in love.”

“With Gwen.”

Aramis nodded. “She’s a lovely girl.” He’d not spoken to her, really, though he’d seen her around the castle.

“She’s in love with Arthur. And he with her.”

“Oh.” Aramis let out a slow breath. “Well, are they—she’s a servant—?”

“Well, they can’t be together while Uther is king. But he, you know, won’t be forever. They’ll marry then. I know they will.”

“Lancelot’s in love with the queen,” Aramis murmured. The irony hardly escaped him.

“Well, the future queen. I should have said something; I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s all right. Just feeling bad for him.”

“Gwen loved Lancelot once, I know she did,” Merlin mused. “When they first met, years ago, when she was just a girl. But she loved him as a girl loves someone, you know? And now she’s a woman, I suppose. And she loves Arthur. Lancelot would never come between that.”

Right, well. If Gwen truly loved Arthur, then there was the key difference between their situations.

Aramis sighed.

“Perhaps Lancelot and I have more in common than meets the eye. Or rather, than _what_ meets the eye.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s a secret.”

Merlin pulled a face.

“No, no, it really is. Dare I say, on the order of yours. It would—feel good, to tell someone who couldn’t be put to death for knowing it.”

“Well, you’re keeping mine safe for me.” Merlin smiled.

Aramis took a deep breath.

“I am—in love,” he murmured. “With the queen of France.”

“Oh,” Merlin replied. “Maybe not the best idea.”

“No,” Aramis sighed. “But it isn’t just that. About a year ago, we—we slept together. Nine months later she bore a child. Her only child. The prince—the _future king of France_ —is my son, Merlin. The future king of my country has no legitimate claim to the throne, and it’s my fault.” He snorted a laugh. “Is that a big enough secret for you?”

“It’s sizable.”

“If they found out, they’d kill me. I barely care. But they’d kill Anne, too. Maybe even the child. In the oddest way, being here has almost— been a holiday. From hiding it all. Worrying myself sick for her safety, and for my son’s.”

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then Merlin nudged Aramis’ side, not very gently.

“I win against you for the deadlier secret,” he murmured. “But you definitely win against Lancelot for the more dramatic royalty-ensnared love story.”

Laughter sputtered from between Aramis’ lips. His whole body had grown painfully rigid, and he forced himself now to relax.

“Don’t worry, Aramis.” Merlin smiled. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Aramis nodded, smiled back. Then he leaned a bit towards Merlin, nudging his side in turn, thinking that, against all odds, he’d truly made a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the school year is beginning. Joy. So the updates will probably be less frequent. That said, I hope to still keep this moving at a reasonable pace. Hope you are all enjoying :)


	6. Chapter 6

Strange—perhaps even unthinkable—that life should find a rhythm. And yet, it did.

Lancelot had been moved, under cover of darkness, to Aramis’ own quarters. He took this eviction from Athos’ rooms in two ways: as a sign of growing trust but also as a sign of growing resignation from the musketeers that a solution was not immediately forthcoming.

Happily, he felt a bit freer here. Not to snoop, of course, but to fetch his own water, sit where he pleased, just generally move about. Of course, in the end, they still forbade him to leave.

He’d gotten half the story from Athos, at length: that he’d secured, by proxy, a leave of absence for Aramis, who had apparently received some difficult news and needed space to grieve. This allowed, at least, that he could been seen through the window. But he still could not leave the premises, of course; under other circumstances he might have protested, but he could not deny Athos’ reasoning that he could hardly impersonate a man whose language he didn’t speak.

And so, life existed in this small chamber.

Still: that rhythm.

Lancelot woke to the sun, fetched water, washed. Did what exercise he could in the small space; there wasn’t much variety, but he spent a while on it anyway. Before his own duties began, Athos brought him breakfast. Then, left on his own for most of the day, Lancelot read from Aramis’ bible (his Latin being passable), and practiced French aloud with himself, and occasionally, when he could muster nothing else, returned to bed for an hour or two. He rarely ever slept then. But Aramis’ bed was warm and soft and, before all too long, familiar; and Lancelot would take what comfort he could get.

But his only true source of comfort came in the evening. After his duties were finished, Porthos would bring Lancelot his dinner—sometimes he’d even eat with him—and they would talk. Just talk. Awkwardly, in sentences too simple to even be called childlike. But they would _communicate_. And Lancelot would sink into the feeling of being human, of being real, even if the things he and Porthos discussed were no more meaningful than food preferences and the current weather.

And in all this, of course, Lancelot was learning French.

This seemed more necessary, with every day that passed.

And many days did pass, in this way. And Lancelot was startled—but also not startled at all—to learn, one evening, that a month had gone by. It had been, according to Athos, October 14th on his second day here. Now, as he and Porthos patiently taught one another to discuss the date and the time, he heard a sentence that felt like cold water to his face.

“ _Aujourd'hui nous sommes mercredi_ ,” Porthos said, slowly. “ _Mer-cre-di. Le treize novembre_.”

“Today is Wednesday,” Lancelot got out, through a sudden spell of dizziness. “November thirteenth.”

Porthos frowned. “Today is Wednesday, November therr—therr— hm. Eh, Lancelot? _Ça va_?”

Lancelot could only shake his head. “It’s been—Porthos, it’s been a month. _Ça fait un mois_.”

And they didn’t need to speak for him to realize that Porthos had already known.

“ _Ça va_?” Lancelot murmured. Sometimes that felt like all he could say.

Porthos shrugged. Then he shook himself; he straightened his back and faced Lancelot directly, falling into a familiar translation exercise.

“Monday,” he said, clearly.

“ _Lundi_ ,” Lancelot responded, throwing himself into it. Trying to make the vowels sound like Porthos did.

“ _Ouais_ , _bien_. Tuesday.”

“Good. _Mardi_.”

They ran through the rest of the days, then the months; then, still reeling a bit, Lancelot went to the cabinet to fetch them both a cup of wine.

He turned back to find tears pooling thickly in Porthos’ eyes.

Seeing that he’d been caught, Porthos turned aside and scrubbed at them harshly.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot murmured, settling back beside him. “I know you miss Aramis. You—want Aramis.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Porthos replied, turning back. “Want Aramis. Bad. Badly. It is— eh— oh.”

“I miss my friends as well. It’s a terrible feeling.”

Porthos gave up then, and poured out a long stream of French in a weary, wavery voice; when he finished, there were fresh tears in his eyes. Then he sniffled, and offered an embarrassed smile.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “English. I know. English.”

“ _Non, cela est France_ ,” Lancelot attempted. “ _Je—_ eh _— devrais parle français_.”

“ _Parler_ ,” Porthos corrected, sniffling again. “I should _make_ speak. You say— I should _I_ speak.” 

“ _Parle— parler_?” Lancelot babbled, knowing he was wrong.

They looked at one another for a moment, then burst into peals of helpless laughter. “ _Pardon_ ,” Lancelot gasped. “ _Pardon. Je suis pardon_.”

“Wrong another!” Porthos howled, adding the correct French so quickly and between such awful hysterics that Lancelot could not understand a word. Realizing this only made Porthos laugh harder. Belly heaving for air, the man tipped forward and rested his forehead against Lancelot’s shoulder.

He thought he’d feel lonelier then. And maybe he should have. But in that little room, with Porthos’ weight pressing against him and the sound of giggles dissolving into the air, Lancelot felt more at ease than he had in weeks. He leaned his head against Porthos’, and they stayed this way a long time.

At long last they regained composure, and sat back. Hesitantly, Porthos brought a hand to Lancelot’s cheek. “ _Je suis désolé_ ,” he murmured. “ _Il_ _est tout simplement_ _un peu difficile_ _pour moi_. Eh— _je veux dire_ — I am sad. Because you are same as Aramis. You look same as Aramis.”

“ _Tu es comme mon ami aussi_. _Nom es Percival. Tu— tu_ — you don’t look like him. But— _tu_ _es si grand. Il es si grand._ ”

Porthos smirked. “I am tall and he is tall. We are same?”

“ _Non. Non. Aussi— tu es si gentil. Il es si gentil._ ”

“We are tall and we are kind. We are same?”            

“I miss him,” Lancelot murmured. “My parents were killed when I was a boy. My whole village was wiped out. Percival—his story is the same. And when we met, for the first time, you know, I had somebody who understood what that felt like. I miss him. I miss him so much I could weep. And Merlin. And— Gwen. God, I miss Gwen so much.”

Porthos frowned, latching onto bits and pieces. “Gwen?”

Lancelot smiled miserably. “The woman I love.” No use denying it, a sea and four centuries apart.

“Love?” Porthos searched for the word. “Eh— _ta femme_? Marry?”

Lancelot shook his head. “But she’s my friend. _Elle es mon ami_.”

Porthos nodded, then took a long, slow breath. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I’m—not—good.”

“ _Ça va mal_?”

“ _Ouais_ ,” Porthos murmured, smiling weakly.

“I’m not so good either,” Lancelot sighed. And he pulled Porthos into a hug; it seemed his friend needed one just as badly as he did.

*

“It’s been a month,” Aramis sighed, not quite ready for the reaction this brought. Merlin slammed his book shut, shoved it so hard it knocked a glass of— _something_ —off the table.

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Sorry,” Aramis offered, at once. He held his hands up, too, for good measure. “Sorry. That wasn’t a shot, Merlin. Just thinking aloud.”

A month in Camelot and the fun, indeed, had worn off. Not only did he miss his brothers more with every passing second, but he was increasingly aware of the fact that they had absolutely no idea what was going on. No idea why an English-speaking doppelgänger had taken his place. At least he had the advantage of Merlin’s insight, so that even if he didn’t know how the story ended at least he knew why it was taking place.

Was Lancelot in Paris, in 1631? If not—or even if so— did they think Aramis himself dead?

Did they think him a deserter?

Aramis was still trying to keep his spirits up. Tonight he’d been at the tavern with the others for three or four rounds. But now all the beer he’d so relished just hours before felt heavy in his stomach, noxious with his guilt. How was it he’d allowed himself to enjoy a single moment of this? Life now was a role he had to play, nothing more, and his only real duty was to keep himself safe until Merlin sorted out his way back.

Merlin picked up the book, opened it.

Then, in one swift movement he shut it again, shoved it aside, and buried his head in his hands.

Aramis fetched a cup of water, brought it to him quietly.

“Hey,” he murmured, easing Merlin back with his free hand, then giving him the cup. “Chin up, _querido_. You’re doing everything you can.”

And he was, truly; in the past month Aramis had sat patiently through at least a dozen incantations, one of which had erased his memory of the previous two days and one of which had given him horrible hiccups, but most of which had done, well—

Absolutely nothing.

“I have something new to try,” Merlin mumbled, after he’d had some water and put the cup aside. “Doubt it’ll work better than any of the others, but—we may as well. Right?”

“Right.”

“All right. Sit here.” Aramis let himself be settled into the chair Merlin vacated; then he left himself be anointed with some sticky oil. Likewise he held a crystal that Merlin handed him.

He closed his eyes, felt Merlin squeeze his shoulder; then he tried to focus, feel nothing but the crystal in his hands. Pray to God, and all the saints, that the spell would work this time. Merlin’s incantation, in its strange pagan language, flowed over him like water.

It lasted a few minutes. Then all at once he felt the warmth of Merlin’s magic recede, and he was left just as he had been, sitting in a chair at Gaius’ rickety table.

At least there were no hiccups this time.

Aramis laid the crystal on the table, wiped this oil from his brow. Merlin had retreated to stand by the fire, and Aramis let him brood privately for a minute or two before joining him there.

“Hey,” he murmured, though Merlin would not turn to look at him. “You’ll get this, Merlin. I know you will.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’m growing my beard back in. And my hair. No matter what you say.”

Merlin huffed a laugh. Aramis slung an arm around his shoulders and stood silently with him a moment, pretending not to notice when he passed a sleeve over his eyes.

“I’ve gotten it wrong a lot of times,” Merlin sighed, finally. “I don’t even know if this is the worst of it, believe it or not. But— I’m really sorry, Aramis. I’m really, really sorry.”

“You were protecting a friend. Merlin, I would have done the same. I’d do anything to protect my brothers.”

“I know.” It came out a croak. “But I am. I am so sorry—for all of this.”

“I’d take the apology if you’d had bad intentions. But you didn’t, _querido_ , and we both know that.”

Another swipe of the sleeve, and Merlin sniffled quietly. “Lancelot—he’s my best friend, Aramis. He’s the only one here, besides Gaius, who knows about my magic, and—and I was only trying to protect him. And now he’s—he’s fuck-knows-where—”

“Hey. It’s completely reasonable to think that he’s taken my place. All right? And if he has, listen—my friends will keep him safe. I mean, they might hold him captive or something, but very civilly, I assure you.” He paused. “Oh, come on. That deserved at least half a smile.”

Merlin did not comply.

“The thing is,” he said, quietly. “I do have one more idea. Something we haven’t tried. But it—it would be dangerous. Lancelot was in danger before all this happened, and—and this would—this would mean that you’d be—”

“The one in danger?” Aramis finished. Merlin nodded miserably.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, my friend,” Aramis replied, jostling him lightly. “I’m used to that by now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Je suis désolé. Il est tout simplement un peu difficile pour moi. = I'm sorry. It's just a little difficult for me.
> 
> Tu es comme mon ami aussi. Nom es Percival. Tu es si grand. Il es si grand. = You are like my friend too. Name is Percival. You are so tall. He is so tall.
> 
> Non. Non. Aussi— tu es si gentil. Il es si gentil. = No. No Only— you are so kind. He is so kind.


	7. Chapter 7

One month should not have felt different from one month minus a day; and yet, it did. After Porthos left, Lancelot lay awake for hours, restless and upset. He knew Merlin; he knew that Merlin would be spending every possible moment, every attainable resource, on getting him back. Merlin was a good man.

But therein lay the problem, because Merlin was precisely that—a man. A human being who made mistakes, who had his limits.

It wasn’t the first time Lancelot had considered the possibility: that this was life now, that he’d have to go on living in Paris, in 1631. That night, though, something felt different. He still looked upon it with dread, of course, but now with a growing sense of—acceptance? Acquiescence, at least. He’d built a new life from an old life’s ashes before, and if he had to again, well. He would. He’d miss his friends to the end of his days, of course, but his broken heart would keep beating.

The real question was: what would he _do_? How would he pass his days, or more to the point, what would he do to make his days worthwhile? Certainly he could not remain Aramis’ passive double forever. So what then: should he sail back to England, explain that he’d been knighted 400 years ago, and ask for his job back?

Lancelot let himself chuckle a little at that. Certainly not, although the part about returning to England held an appeal. To do that, though, he’d need money; for money he’d need a job. And for any of this he’d need to function in his new world, not only by speaking French but also by engaging with this—with the _future_.

1631—it still made his mind spin! And yet he knew no more of this world than what he could gain from looking out the window.

Mind made up, Lancelot finally fell asleep.

In the morning he waited for Athos to arrive with breakfast; they exchanged their usual, slightly-better-than-cordial conversation, then Athos left him for the day. Lancelot settled before the bowl of porridge. He found, though, that he was too worked up to have much of an appetite.

He wasn’t excited, not exactly. But it would be a lie to blame it all on nerves, to deny that there wasn’t an aspect of sheer curiosity there as well.

He made himself eat half the bowl. Then, with a silent apology, he opened Aramis’ small wardrobe and took from it a dark, dusty cloak that would serve well enough.

And then, Lancelot donned it. And walked out the door.

Light flooded his eyes, burning almost painfully; he’d not seen the sun without a window between them in over a month now. And _oh_ , he’d _missed_ it! For a moment all he could do was stand at Aramis’ door and soak in the warmth of it, close his eyes to feel it fall across his cheeks.

But the sun he’d seen before. It was time to see something new.

For a knight—and a paid fighter before that—Lancelot felt strangely adventurous preparing to simply walk through a city. But this was not his city; this was not his _century_. So really, it was something of an adventure. And he’d always had a liking for those.

Pulling the cloak over his head, glad for the autumn chill, he set off down the road.

His first impression was of color; at first he thought it might be his eyes, unaccustomed to this as well as to light. But it couldn’t only be this! Even the peasants were dressed in colors typically too expensive for all but nobility; thus each street he came to had the air of a feast, or ball. And there were not only colors, but patterns! Women he passed wore wide-skirted dresses, printed with details as delicate as the finest tapestry.

And the buildings! The masonry so even, and the stones so smooth; the windows so large, and plentiful! Archways and columns—just for the sake of columns? Everything so lovely and grand that Lancelot thought his neck might break in his urgency to turn to and fro.

He came upon a market, before long. Here the tone was familiar, but the _wares_ —some he knew but some were utterly foreign. There were flowers he’d never seen before. Stacks of bright, enticing objects that could only be fruits and vegetables—but of types he could not recognize. And heaps and heaps of bread—all of it leavened, looking fresh and soft.

And as a backdrop to it all: the strange language of this new land. Now and then Lancelot’s ears picked up a word or phrase that he recognized: _bonjour_ , _ouais_ , _ça va_ , _combien_? More than anything he could understand food words. For a moment he thought of how pleased Porthos would be, that he’d been able to understand brief exchanges about apples and wheat and smoked ham.

But Porthos could not know, of course.

Pointless, then, to entertain the notion of sharing this adventure with him.

Slowly the loneliness, which he’d thought he’d left safely in Aramis’ chambers, crept back; however exciting this new world was, he was still all but friendless inside it. The fresh realization of this soured in his stomach. And all at once the colors and noises of the market ceased to entertain; began instead to disorient.

There was an exit: an alley, just to his right. Lancelot took it, hurried along a narrow street in search of a place to sit, to gather his thoughts. None seemed forthcoming. His little street met up with one that was larger, though calmer than the market, and he turned down it instead.

A few more streets, and a few more turns. And then Lancelot found himself, quite unintentionally, at the steps of a grey stone church.

He’d never sought peace in such places. In Camelot it was impossible to untwine the New Religion from cruelties against the Old; impossible to forget that its clergy would happily put his closest friend to death.

But here, it all seemed a little less grim. The big church just seemed a calm, quiet building, where he might escape the noise and the wind.

Lancelot pushed open the door. Inside the air was heavy and still, and smelled of damp stone and candle smoke. A few silent worshippers were scattered amongst the pews. He joined them, tugging off his hood and settling himself in a corner, pulling in a deep and grateful breath of the quietude.

Looking around, Lancelot smiled tiredly. Even the stained glass was different here: brighter and finer, and he let himself be lost among the images for a while. Let his eyes wander the faces, the flowers. The red and green and purple all glowing in the swelling sun.

The streaks of colored light on the stone had swept clear from one side of the altar to the other, by the time that Lancelot even thought about rising.

*

Sweat stung Aramis’ eyes, and he wiped it absently. It was nearly midsummer (though it _should_ have been Advent, now) and every day seemed hotter than the one before.

Not to mention he was really working himself today. In the month he’d been in Camelot, he’d improved with the broadsword; it was fun, in a grueling way, and he hardly wanted to ruin Lancelot’s reputation for him. But now he sparred with new urgency. If they were to act on Merlin’s plan, he’d need to be able to defend himself; and his weapon of choice, sadly, was not an option.

So he’d convinced Gwaine and Elyan to practice with him an extra hour or two. He blamed his recent illness for what he described as a weakness in his muscles, and asked his friends to help him build his strength back to former levels. They were glad to help. And Aramis, though he missed Paris ever more painfully, was glad of their cheerful, easy company.

Presently Gwaine mopped his face as well. Then, with no warning given, he stripped off his mail and shirt, and flopped down in the grass. Elyan rolled his eyes, but sat down as well.

“Are we deciding we’ve had enough for today?” he asked, stretching out his legs.

“I’m deciding for all of us, yeah. Lancelot?”

“We’ve done plenty, for today,” Aramis agreed. He sheathed his sword and wiped at a fresh drop of sweat. “Again, my friends: thank you.”

“Thank us by getting the first round,” Gwaine replied. “It’s too hot out for regular training, let alone extra.”

“Agreed.”

“You! Don’t agree with me!” Gwaine, without sitting up, kicked at Elyan’s leg. “If anyone here really needs the extra practice, it’s you!”

“Ooh, that would hurt so much more if I hadn’t just beaten this one ten times in a row!”

The bickering was comfortingly familiar. Aramis settled in the grass, forming a triangle with the other men; for a long, peaceful moment he simply let himself feel the sun.

Then Gwaine’s voice again—softer this time. “He’s worrying me.”

“Who?” Elyan replied.

“Percival.”

Aramis forced his eyes back open and sat, looking in the same direction as the other men. On the other side of the field was Percival, practicing alone.

“He hasn’t been himself,” Gwaine mused, glancing at Aramis. “Not since you were sick, honestly.”

Elyan frowned. “What, do you think he’s sick as well?”

“You know I never think anything,” Gwaine replied, and the two of them laughed. “Although, if I were to think anything about it—”

“What?” Aramis prompted.

“If I were to think about Percival, I’d think that he hasn’t seemed well since you were sick. But that—that lack of wellness, shall we say—it seems worst when he’s around you.”

“You’re blaming Lancelot for this?”

“Elyan, shut it, and let the grown-ups speak. All right?”

Elyan pouted, and whacked Gwaine’s arm; but the conversation had sobered now, and carried on without him.

“Listen,” Gwaine intoned. “I’ll admit I haven’t known him long, but I’ve—I’ve never seen Percival look at a woman. You know?”

“No?”

“I notice these things. It’s a habit. Now, could I be wrong? I’ve been wrong before, once or twice. But what am I thinking? I’m thinking that sometimes it takes almost losing somebody to see how much they mean to you.”

Before Aramis could reply, Elyan snorted. “Christ, Gwaine, we didn’t _almost lose_ Lancelot.”

Gwaine ignored him. “You know what it feels like. We all see how you look at Gwen, mate. Well, lately, Perce can’t stop looking at _you_. Maybe you should talk to him.”

And more than ever now, Aramis didn’t have to pretend; as Lancelot, he asked the same question that he would have anyway. “And say what?”

“ _Hello? Hello, you seem even quieter than usual, and you’re already, by far, the quietest?_ ” Gwaine shrugged. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’ve misunderstood. But the fact it that something’s not right; and even if you’re not at the root of it, you’re still his closest friend. You ought to—see to him, Lancelot.”

As he’d been doing with all things, Aramis left Gwaine’s words aside until he could discuss them with Merlin. He did this as soon as he could, though it was not until after dinner.

Having been apprised, Merlin sat quietly a moment; they were still at the dinner table, and his hands toyed with an errant spoon. “They are close,” he said, at last. “Lancelot and Percival.”

“And has he seemed different to you?” Aramis prompted. “He hasn’t exactly been friendly to me, but I have no comparison.”

“No, I agree with Gwaine,” Merlin replied, mouth twisting unhappily. “That’s not typical for him. Especially not with Lancelot.”

Aramis had more or less been expecting this answer. As he’d left the training fields, he’d briefly entertained Gwaine’s explanation: that Percival might feel _in that way_ for Lancelot. He’d even had an unhappy laugh about it: that nobody, in any century, could fall in love with the right person. But in the end, this seemed to simply an answer.

No, Percival’s behavior could mean only one thing: that he suspected. Aramis had played something wrong, given himself away. It seemed that, for now, the man had kept his thoughts to himself; but he wouldn’t forever.

If Percival was onto him, Aramis had to put his mind at ease. Or else there was no telling who he’d bring his worries to—and no telling if these worried spelled the start of real danger for himself, or for Merlin.

“I should talk to him.” Aramis pushed back from the table and stood. “If nothing else, we’ll know where his mind is at.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No. No, just—tell me the way to his quarters?”

They’d eaten late; the corridors were mostly empty as Aramis carefully followed Merlin’s directions. The doors were not marked. Even as he came to the room he was fairly sure was Percival’s, he had no real way of knowing; just knocked, and realized as he did so that he’d formulated no real plan for this conversation. Well—perhaps that would help? (Or perhaps he was only thinking so to make himself feel better.)

Nobody answered. Percival might have been at the tavern—or he might have been inside, and ignoring the summons. Or perhaps Aramis was knocking at a broom cupboard. Whatever the case, he’d rather know than not; so he pushed open the door.

It swung open, either unlocked or unlockable. But the room was certainly someone’s chambers, so, wisely or unwisely, Aramis stepped inside, letting the door shut behind him.

And then: the whisper of metal on leather. A sword being pulled from its scabbard, raised against him.

“What do you want?”

Aramis raised his hands at once, took a small step forward, away from the blade. “To talk, my friend. I know something’s wrong between us.”

“Nothing is wrong between me and Lancelot. Our problem, _friend_ , is that you’re not Lancelot.”

Aramis sighed, hardly having to fake the exasperation in it. “Percival—I’m going to turn around now. Once you’ve seen I’m not armed, can you put your sword away, please?”

Percival didn’t reply, but Aramis turned anyway. For a long moment the man studied him closely; then, with slow motions, Percival returned his sword to its scabbard.

“Good start,” Aramis remarked, with a small smile. He received no smile in return, just a look of scathing suspicion as Percival stalked past him into the room, sat heavily at the table by the window.

“Can I sit?” Aramis gestured to the other chair. When no answer came, he did anyway. For a long moment they just sat, staring at one another across the mottled stone surface. In the end Aramis elected to break the silence.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just what I’ve said.”

“That I’m not Lancelot?”

Percival grunted.

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t see what there is not to understand. I know Lancelot, and you’re not him.”

“Just— please. Tell me why you’re saying that. Why you think that. What—what about me suggests that to you?”

“Lots of things,” Percival rumbled, in reply.

Aramis tried not to react with the aggravation he was feeling. Really, though, if being taciturn were some sort of sport, Percival could give Athos one hell of a fight. “I don’t know what to say to you, if you can’t say anything more to me,” he replied, finally.

Another grunt, then their eyes met. It would likely have been missed by anyone who wasn’t a solider himself; but behind the coldness there, Aramis saw a man absolutely terrified for his friend’s wellbeing.

He put his hands on the table, well within view, and shrugged his shoulders.

Percival leaned forward. By now Aramis wanted to look away, but something wouldn’t let him.

“You came to Camelot for the first time with me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Aramis replied, tilting his head a little. “About three years ago, I came for the first time.”

“Then tell me what you did then.”

Now Aramis was beyond grateful that, after misrepresenting his character in the tavern, he’d pressed Merlin for every possible detail of Lancelot’s life. “I wanted to become a knight,” he said. “It had always been my dream.”

“They turned you away.”

“No, they knighted me.” Aramis smiled wryly. “And then they found me out for forging my documents of nobility. And _then_ , I defeated the griffin and all was forgiven, but I— decided to leave anyway. It was a matter of honor.”

Percival’s eyes narrowed. Aramis had passed the first test; clearly he had not been expected to. There was a long, stale silence. Then Percival sat back once more.

“Your hair’s different.”

“Hair grows.”

“No, it’s shorter.”

“Right. It grows, and then you cut it.”

“You speak louder.”

Aramis scoffed, then hoped this didn’t seem too brash a response. “I honestly don’t know what to say to that, Percival.”

“What’s your birthday?” he said.

“March twelfth.”

“Your favorite food?”

“Custard tart.”

“What was the name of your village?”

“Percival—”

“What was the name of your village?”

“Benwick,” Aramis snapped, having bought himself the extra moment that he needed to remember.

Percival blinked.

“And what was mine?”

Shit.

There was no reason to stall this time; he’d never recall what he’d never known to begin with. “I don’t remember,” Aramis replied, quietly. “I’m sorry, Percival.” He met the man’s eyes again, finding them openly miserable this time.

“Lancelot wouldn’t forget.”

“I really am sorry, my friend. I just— have.”

“Lancelot _wouldn’t_ forget that.”

“I—”

“Be sorry if you like!” Percival yelped, getting to his feet. “But leave. Now!”

And Aramis did as he was told, pushing back from the table and jogging from the room.

He did not return to Gaius’ tower. Instead Aramis found himself strolling, wandering, almost hoping to lose himself in the labyrinth of the castle.

Simply put, that had not gone well. He hoped he’d left Percival with enough doubt to pause before moving forward with his suspicions, but honestly? He might have made things worse. And even if Percival believed him—

Even if Percival believed him, the other explanation he could arrive at was that his close friend had forgotten the name of his demolished childhood village, something which had no doubt been shared in a moment of trust. In a moment that had mattered to Percival and Lancelot both.

“Sorry, Lancelot,” Aramis whispered, not for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Ebm36 and winchestersgirl for giving me the push I needed to update :)


End file.
